"Dexter, Colin - Inspector Morse 01 - Last Bus to Woodstock" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dexter Colin)

unobtrusive.
'Attractive?'
'Well - er, yes. I suppose she was,' replied the manager. Lewis made a note and wished Morse were
there; but the Inspector said he felt thirsty and had gone into the Minster across the way.
'She worked, you say, with two other girls,' said Lewis. 'I think I'd better have a word with them if
I can.'
'Certainly, officer.' The manager, Mr Palmer, seemed a fraction relieved.
Lewis questioned the two young ladies at considerable length. Neither was 'a particular friend' of
Sylvia. She had, as far as they knew, no regular beau. Yes, she had boasted occasionally of her sexual
exploits - but so did most of the girls. She was friendly enough, but not really 'one of the girls'.
Lewis looked through her desk. The usual bric-a-brac. A bit of a broken mirror, a comb with a few
blonde hairs in it, yesterday's Sun, pencils galore, rubbers, typewriter ribbons, carbons. On the wall
behind Sylvia's desk was pinned a photograph of Omar Sharif, flanked by a typewritten holiday rota.
Lewis saw that Sylvia had been on a fortnight's holiday in the latter half of July, and he asked the two
girls where she'd been to.
'Stayed at home, I think,' replied the elder of the two girls, a quiet, serious-looking girl in her early
twenties.
Lewis sighed. "You don't seem to know much about her, do you?' The girls said nothing. Lewis
tried his best to elicit a little more co-operation, but met with little success. He left the office just before
midday, and strolled over to the Minster.
'Poor Sylvia,' said the younger girl after he had gone.
'Yes, poor Sylvia,' replied Jennifer Coleby.

Lewis eventually, and somewhat to his surprise, discovered Morse in the 'gentlemen only' bar at the
back of the Minster.
'Ah, Lewis.' He rose and placed his empty glass on the bar, "What's it to be?" Lewis asked for a
pint of bitter. 'Two pints of your best bitter,' said Morse cheerfully to the man behind the bar, 'and
have one yourself.'
It became clear to Lewis that the topic of conversation before his arrival had been horse racing.
Morse picked up a copy of Sporting Life and walked over to the corner with his assistant.
'You a betting man, Lewis?'
'I sometimes put a few bob on the Derby and the National, sir, but I'm not a regular gambler.'
"You keep it that way,' said Morse, with a note of seriousness in his voice. 'But look here, what do
you think of that?" He unfolded the racing paper and pointed to one of the runners in the 3.15 at
Chepstow: The Black Prince. 'Worth a quid, would you say, sergeant?'
'Certainly an odd coincidence.'
'10 to 1,' said Morse, drinking deeply on his beer.
'Are you going to back it, sir?'
'I already have,' said Morse, glancing up at the old barman.
'Isn't that illegal, sir?'
'I never studied that side of the law.' Doesn't he want to solve this murder, thought Lewis, and as if
Morse read his unspoken words he was promptly asked for a report on the deceased's position with
Town and Gown. Lewis did his best, and Morse did not interrupt. He seemed rather more interested in
his pint of beer. When he finished, Morse told him to get back to headquarters, type his reports, then
get home and have some sleep. Lewis didn't argue. He felt dog-tired, and sleep was fast becoming a
barely remembered luxury.
'Nothing else, sir?'
'Not until tomorrow when you'll report to me at 7.30 a.m. sharp - unless you want to put a few bob
on The Black Prince.' Lewis felt in his pocket and pulled out 50p.
'Each way, do you think?'